


A Most Peculiar Demon Love Song

by Fatale (femme)



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mostly porn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:34:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27996111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femme/pseuds/Fatale
Summary: “Do you ever fuck men?”Jaskier had gotten used to Geralt’s bluntness over the years, but this was kind of a lot, even for him. Unfortunately, he had been in the middle of taking a long drag of his particularly bitter brew and managed to spray it all over the table.Eyes watering, he managed to meet Geralt’s spectacularly unimpressed gaze. “Pardon?”---Jaskier gets infected by a sex demon, kind of. It goes about as well as you’d expect.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 15
Kudos: 185





	1. Chapter 1

“You’re a what now?” Geralt set down the mug of ale onto the ragged wooden table with a dull thud. Some splashed out onto the table; it was nearly the same shade of amber as Geralt’s eyes.

While he had been called a demon in the bedroom a time or two, Jaskier had never quite had a name so on the nose. “You heard me,” Jaskier said morosely. He would not have fucked and run off in the night if he’d known that she was a sorceress.

Or else, he might still have but he would have been far more careful about it.

“She made me drink something foul and then said that I would have the uncontrollable urge to have sex with the first person I encounter every new day.”

“Or what?”

“Apparently I die horribly and so do they.”

It was a neatly done little nasty twist. He might have been willing to risk his own life not to be controlled by someone else, but he couldn’t risk someone else’s life, nor could he reasonably live the rest of his life in absolute solitude.

“We’ll break this curse,” Geralt said, looking troubled, and for good reason. He knew better than most how horrible it was to have your choices taken away from you; your body twisted to someone else’s purpose.

“By tomorrow morning?” Jaskier asked glumly, staring fixedly down at the uneven surface of the table. 

“Maybe our first stop will be at a brothel,” Geralt carefully allowed, his hands flat next to his drink. A scarred man against scarred wood. He motioned towards the server, and a second later, another beer joined his on the table.

Geralt pushed it wordlessly towards Jaskier.

“I don’t know if I can do that,” Jaskier said glumly. He took a swig of his drink; in a shocking turn of events, it was bitter. “I don’t know if I can sleep with someone who doesn’t know they’re going to die if we don’t finish. That’s a lot of pressure.”

“You could always tell them.”

“That would make me sound like a serial killer.”

Geralt shrugged in a _what-can-you-do_ sort of way, and it twisted something low in his belly to be reminded that Geralt rarely interacted with people who were actively terrified of him. Difference was, he did not have the option of hiding it.

“Do you ever fuck men?”

Jaskier had gotten used to Geralt’s bluntness over the years, but this was kind of a lot, even for him. Unfortunately, he had been in the middle of taking a long drag of his particularly bitter brew and managed to spray it all over the table.

Eyes watering, he managed to meet Geralt’s spectacularly unimpressed gaze. “Pardon?”

Geralt’s brow was knit curiously like he was enquiring about an unusual weather chance if he ever bothered to comment about such things. “Do you ever fuck men?”

As a rule, he did not try to hide his sexual exploits. He wasn’t a big fan of shame nor did he believe Geralt cared overly much and in his whole louche vagabond life, Geralt was his one constant.

He did not morally or physically _object_ to fucking men, but it did require more discretion that usually seemed like more effort than it was worth.

Outside, the night was creeping by. Jaskier and some unfortunate were quickly running out of time.

“I don’t mind,” Jaskier said, keeping his voice deliberately very even. He didn’t know where Geralt was going with this line of questioning, but he highly suspected he wouldn’t like it.

“Fine,” Geralt said, and picked up his drink, draining it down to the dregs.

“Did something just happen?”

“Come on,” Geralt said impatiently, standing and slinging his sword over his shoulder. Jaskier did not know for sure what was happening, but he had a creeping suspicion. Still, he followed Geralt across the tavern and up a set of creaky stairs tucked in the back, and straight down the rabbit hole.

In the room they had rented for the night, there was one single bed. It was technically Geralt’s turn to take the bed as they tended to take turns when only one room was available unless Geralt had a terrible and no doubt disgusting wound and Jaskier took pity on him. So, he didn’t think anything of Geralt leaning his sword next to the bed, or slowly stripping off his armor, each piece hitting the floor with a dull thud.

Jaskier slowly undid the buttons of his overshirt; each time he looked up, Geralt was casting his sideways glances. He had no reason to look; he could hear what Jaskier was doing, could probably hear the way Jaskier’s heart kicked up each time he caught Geralt staring.

“What’s going to happen here?” Jaskier asked, folding his shirt up and draping it carefully over the back of a primitively hewn chair. He knew, but he _needed_ to hear it.

He wanted Geralt to say it.

“You can fuck me.” Geralt’s boots hit the floor, one after the other. He pushed it to the side with a minimal movement of his foot.

Jaskier licked his suddenly dry lips. He had given thought to being with Geralt, of course, but only in an abstract way, idly wondering what his powerful body might feel like beneath him or above him sometimes during a long night.

But Geralt had never, in all their years of bickering and travelling together, ever given any indication that he regarded Jaskier in that way. And he was only offering now because the thought of putting a prostitute in mortal danger just to fuck it away an hour later made him queasy. Truth be told, this didn’t feel much better.

“You don’t have to do that,” Jaskier said quietly, turning away. He ought to get dressed again, walk through that door, and leave civilization behind. Live in woods, grow his own food. Oh god, what if the curse extended to animals?

“I don’t mind,” Geralt said. “What are your other options?”

It was a hell of a time for Geralt to start using his brain.

“ _Fuck_ ,’ Jaskier said with feeling, still facing the wall.

He already knew he was going to do it – from the moment Geralt’s armor hit the floor, he knew he was going to take what Geralt was offering if only for the opportunity while he told himself that he had no other viable options, which was also true enough. But he had a moment of regret for what they could never be after this – if Jaskier had once hoped that maybe Geralt would look at him and want something more than what they had, it was a foolish wish anyway. Maybe it hadn't been so abstract.

The one time Jaskier had ever seen Geralt even harbor somewhat tender feelings for someone, it had ended spectacularly badly. Epic enough to inspire a ballad if Geralt wouldn’t drop him off the side of the nearest cliff before he even reached the refrain.

So Geralt made do with local whores and the occasional person who who wasn’t afraid to fuck a Witcher. And Jaskier made do with watching Geralt.

“Just close your eyes and stick it in,” Geralt grunted from his position on the bed.

“You say the most romantic things to me,” Jaskier said dryly, turning around just to nearly swallow his tongue. 

Geralt had, in Jaskier’s moment of internal panic, managed to strip off all of his clothes and was now on his knees and hands on the bed, ass up.

“Assumed you’d need to be the one doing the sticking.”

“I hadn’t given it much thought,” Jaskier managed to choke out.

“Rather not chance it.”

Yes, because Geralt was the epitome of well thought out plans and careful consideration. “Better not.” Jaskier mechanically pulled off his undershirt, undid the laces of his breeches with shaking hands, eyes glued to Geralt’s magnificent ass like his eyeballs were magnets and Geralt’s ass was a giant piece of metal. No matter where he tried to look, his eyes were inevitably drawn back.

He tried to kick off his shoes and nearly fell. “Would you stop that?” he snapped at Geralt’s bum disapprovingly.

“Doing what?” Geralt sounded, if at all possible, even more churlish than usual.

The question gave him pause, though. He could hardly ask Geralt to stop being himself – not when generally, Jaskier liked that self so much. And so many other people did not.

“Never mind,” Jaskier said with a sigh and crossed the room. He threw himself on the bed next to Geralt and made a half-assed attempt at toeing off his boots. From this angle, he could see Geralt’s grumpy, lovely face, which currently looked exasperated with Jaskier’s persistent and ever-present foolishness. It was an insultingly familiar look on him.

No wonder he had to pay people, Jaskier thought sulkily, if he was usually this bitchy about being fucked. He kicked off his boots with a vengeance, heard them hit the wall and then the floor. Beside him, Geralt sighed and Jaskier turned towards him, ready to tell him where he could shove his goddamn – and got distracted by Geralt’s profile. He was faced away from Jaskier now, so that he could only see the edge of his cheek, his brow, hie white hair swept across his broad shoulders. Impulsively, he reached out and touched Geralt’s back, saw the muscles ripple beneath his scarred skin, and knew he was ruined, utterly undone. He was never going to recover.

Still wasn’t going to stop him, though.

“Are you sure?” Jaskier asked, one last desperate time. What he wanted Geralt to answer, he couldn’t say, but Geralt just reached over, grabbed his bag off the side of the bed and wriggled a bottle free, grabbing the cork between his teeth and spitting it out onto the floor. It rolled away into the shadows. Geralt poured a generous amount onto his fingers and reached back into the shadowy cleft off his ass. Jaskier swallowed, made a high-pitched sound that a dozen Witchers could probably hear all the way at Kaer Morhen.

He grabbed Geralt’s wrist reflexively. “Let me.” He reached across Geralt and grabbed the little vial, poured some on his own hand until rivulets rolled down his wrist. He traced the divots in Geralt’s spine down to his ass, following the same route Geralt took, but slower until he reached Geralt’s entrance where he was tight and tense. “Relax,” he admonished, “or you’re gonna snap my dick off.”

Dick-loss _should_ have been enough to immediately make him wilt, but he had Geralt, naked and vulnerable, laid open like a royal banquet beneath him. He felt, suddenly, as if he had been starving for a thousand years.

“Look at you,” he said, muttering all manner of stupidity as he worked his fingers in and then out of Geralt, watching the muscles across his incredible back, bunch and contract, his fingers disappearing into the hot wet clutch of Geralt’s body twitching beneath him. “You want it?" he breathed out. A bead of sweat trailed down Geralt’s back, winding down an invisible pathway between the sharp juts of his shoulder blades. His hair tucked over his shoulder; the ends splayed across the linen sheet like a starburst gone supernova. “You want my big cock in you?”

Geralt pushed back against his fingers, panting, “Yeah,” Geralt managed.

He pulled his fingers out, swiped them carelessly against the quilt, and rubbed his cock down the slick crease of Geralt’s ass.

Jesus, at this rate, he was going to come before he even managed to get inside. With trembling fingers, he gripped the base of his cock and slowly guided himself inside.

This oil wasn’t made for fucking, that was abundantly clear. It was thin and slippery, easing the way but leaving enough friction that he felt every detail of heat and skin, the way his insides clenched and trembled against the intrusion. He wondered when last someone had Geralt this way; he wondered, with a vicious sort of victory, if he was the first.

“Breathe through it and bear down a little,” he said, nearly crooning. He ran an appreciative hand up the side of Geralt’s flank, reached around to worry at a nipple that went hard and pebbled beneath his fingers.

He felt Geralt relax in increments, kept twitching his hips forward, slowly working his way inside until his hips were nestled against the curve of Geralt’s ass, and Geralt was relaxed, rocking back onto Jaskier’s cock, strong forearms braced against the bed. Jaskier took that as his cue to really give it to him, snapping his hips forward, punching low grunts out of Geralt as his hands clenched and unclenched against the rucked-up sheets.

“Look at you," Jaskier babbled like a moron, an absolute idiot half in-love with his best friend, which he most assuredly was not, “ _fuck_ , look at you taking it like that.” His fingers dug into the hard muscle along Geralt’s flanks, pulling him back until the only sound is the wet slide of skin against skin, the soft punched-out sounds that Geralt was making each time Jaskier slid home. “Tell me you want this,” Jaskier said. Sweat was gathering at the tips of his finger, collecting and dropping onto his face. He closed his eyes against the sting, felt Geralt’s arms give out, and he slipped forward onto his chest. The abrupt change in angle had Jaskier’s eyes flying open as he pitched forward, landing flush against Geralt’s sweat-slick back, his mouth absolutely chockfull of shockingly soft white-gray hair.

The change in angle had Geralt gasping beneath him, tightening around Jaskier’s cock and Jaskier found himself coming, nose pressed against Geralt’s neck, orgasm quite literally wrung out of him.

After a few seconds, Jaskier softening and slipping out, he carefully withdrew the rest of the way and flopped down on the bed beside Geralt, who had his face pressed into the pillow.

He scratched his belly idly, wondering what to do next, curious if that had successfully quelled his demon lust. “Hey, Ger?” he asked, staring up at the ceiling. The inside was lined with a kind of thatching common in these colder climates. It was cheap and kept the heat in. “H-how was, you know—”

Jaskier did not want to be _that guy_ , but he was curious.

“It was fine,” Geralt said with his usual stunning lack of grace. He rolled over and Jaskier watched the steady rise and fall of his chest. His face was tilted away towards the window, the sky pitch-black and full of stars.

He knew that Geralt was only doing this because of the curse, because he couldn’t seem to keep himself from helping people even as he bitched about how awful they were, but Jaskier wanted to keep this moment. He wanted to memorize it like a painting, to fold it up, and tuck it away safe somewhere inside of him.

There were some things that even as they were happening, you could tell would eventually become memories that would hurt one day.

He propped himself up to see Geralt more clearly; he wanted to see that molasses-slow flutter of Geralt’s dark eyelashes against his pale cheeks. If he was going to deliberately hurt himself, he might as well go all in.

Instead, he found Geralt flushed bright pink, hair a sweaty, tangled mess. He looked like he’d been _mauled_. “Don’t say a thing,” Geralt muttered.

“Oh my _god_ ,” Jaskier said.

“What did I say?”

“I rocked your world,” Jaskier crowed.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, but his mouth looked less severe than usual. On a normal person, it might even be called a smile.

But Geralt wasn’t normal, hadn’t been for a long time. “It’s okay,” Jaskier said smugly. “I’ll hold you in my big manly arms.”

Geralt huffed, but let Jaskier envelope him in his arms, didn’t protest when Jaskier scooted up right behind him.

Jaskier wouldn’t have Geralt any other way, he decided, lying down next to him and holding him close as the sun rose.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did u think i forgot this fic?? well, I did. but I remembered it again!

"Oh dear," Jaskier said, untangling his body from where he was casually looped around Geralt's middle like a starving python. He was horrified to notice that he'd drooled a bit on his shoulder.

Surreptitiously, he wiped Geralt's shoulder, hoping not to wake him.

"You missed a spot," Geralt said in his early-morning voice, as raspy as gravel and nearly as intimidatingly manly as his five o'clock shadow. Jaskier tried to gauge his proximity to death, but Geralt sounded as amused as he ever did, which was to say less dour than usual. Jaskier tried to look on the bright side. Geralt's ass, which was pressed firmly against Jaskier's crotch, was doing inspiring things that fine morning, and it was on the tip of his tongue to offer to second go-around for, like, _practice_ when Geralt tossed Jaskier's arms back and heaved himself up from the bed.

Well, there was his confirmation that Geralt wasn't a snuggler. 

"Good gracious," Jaskier goggled as Geralt quite unashamedly crossed the room wearing not a stitch and scratching this belly as he gathered his clothes from where he'd carelessly tossed them the night before. 

He took an _extremely_ naked minute to swipe Jaskier's clothes from the back of the chair and toss them onto the bed. "Get dressed; we have a lot of ground to cover."

Jaskier touched the edged of his jacket, trying to tamp down a feeling of what could only be unreasonably called disappointment. The embroidered edges were stiff between the callouses of his fingers, callouses he had earned, maybe not with sweat and blood but with feeling and pain, no less significant for the lack of gruesome bodily fluids expelled. 

Maybe that was why he mentally shrugged, forced himself to move his aching body. He had done it so many times before. He slid out of the bed and started dressing.

Besides, Jaskier reasoned, buttoning his overcoat and ducking down to glare at the pristine layer of snow that had fallen during the night, he supposed this was only to be expected. This whole night and even more awkward morning had been transactional, completely impersonal, or as impersonal as anything could be between two close friends.

By the time he was fully dressed, his own version of armor in place, he looked up, searching the room for his surly companion, but it was just in time to see the back of Geralt's broad back ad he walked out and softly closed the door behind him.

Jaskier could hear the steps groaning beneath his heavy tread all the way down.

"Whelp," he said to the empty room, "I guess this means that we're not talking about it."

\---

When he got down to the tavern, Geralt was eating a bowl of thick porridge sweetened with a drizzle of honey and nuts. He had a wicked sweet tooth that he would deny to his dying breath, but in rare times he indulged in cakes or tarts, Jaskier would watch the way he sucked on the tips of his fingers, tongue lingering across the sweetness there.

Not that Jaskier paid attention to those kinds of things.

That morning, there was an extra bowl across from Geralt, which Jaskier assumed was for him. He slipped onto the bench across from Geralt, who was already nearly done. He looked up as Jaskier sighed and tucked into his own bowl.

"If we ride hard, we can be in Tancarville by nightfall."

"What's in Tancarville?" Jaskier said, only half-listening. The porridge was thick and sweet, heavy and filling. 

Geralt was watching Jaskier with carefully guarded eyes; he hated being in the North. This was Renfri's territory. "There's a sorceress there that owes me a favor."

"You sure you want to cash that in for me?" Jaskier asked in between bites. 

"You can't stay like this."

Suddenly, the food didn't taste as good. Jaskier swallowed a little painfully around the lump of food in his throat. Figured that Geralt wouldn't want to keep having -- whatever this was with him. Of course, he would want it to be over as quickly as possible. 

Jaskier forced a cheery grin on his face and pushed the bowl away from him, no longer hungry. 

Geralt frowned down at the half-eaten meal.

The problem with trying to conceal something from someone who had extra-super senses was that you had to control the uncontrollable. He took a couple of deep breaths and tried to steady his heartbeat. He must have done a decent enough job because Geralt didn't say anything the rest of the morning, or as they hitched their horses, Geralt on Roach, and Jaskier on elderly gelding they bought some time ago in Redania, which Geralt had smirkingly purchased, saying only, "Seems more your speed."

They rode hard, stopping only once by a frozen river to fill up their skeins and eat some of the salted pork they picked up before leaving town. Geralt could have hunted or fished, stomping a hole through the ice, and Jaskier could have watched him do those things, but they didn't want to lose the time. 

Or else, Geralt didn't. 

By the time they arrived in Tancarville, Jaskier was sweaty and grouchy and his backside had hurt most unpleasantly. Jaskier found the nearest amenable establishment, put on a little show, earned some coin, and afterward made the rounds, collecting local gossip. 

He sat down across from Geralt, who was hunched over in the back with a hood pulled down low over his features. He looked up as Jaskier sat, the oil lamp on the table flickering low, throwing his face into sharp relief. It made him look both far more beautiful and even more remote. "Turns out," Jaskier said, keeping his voice low, "there have been mass grave desecrations at the local cemetery."

Geralt made a face and muttered glumly, "I _hate_ graveirs."

"But they pay the bills."

"In their own way," Geralt agreed. 

"As exciting as flesh-eating monsters are," Jaskier said, only too aware that he'd been spending far too much time with Geralt if he knew graveirs by disgusting description, "why did we need to set such a frenzied pace?"

"The contract is the price." Geralt looked at Jaskier like he was a particular brand of stupid that he simply couldn't comprehend. He sometimes looked askance at families like that too, like they were something so far out of his realm of knowledge that they might as well have been something of legend. At times, it seemed like Geralt was designed to break Jaskier's dumb, lecherous heart. "There's a sorceress named Keira hiding out this way. I helped her a while back, and she owes me a favor."

"And you think she can help me with my – problem?"

"She specializes in curse-breaking."

The thought of explaining his predicament to yet another person made a shiver of horror pass through his body.

Geralt, of course, noticed. His eyes flicked up, catching the light. The edges of his lips were pressed closed, eyebrows drawn low. It was an annoyingly good look on him.

"Stop that," Jaskier snapped. It was decidedly unfair that he had to go to such great lengths to hide things from Geralt, especially when so much of Geralt remained a mystery to him. 

He wanted to shake Geralt and demand to know what he was thinking, to crack open his skull like a coconut and take a sip—"I should order food," Jaskier said suddenly. He was getting hungry, and it was making him weirder than usual. " _Then_ we sleep. We can check out the cursed graveyard full of nasty in the morning."

Geralt grunted his agreement while he flagged down a server. 

There had been a time when Geralt would have headed out to face down the pack of graveirs on his own, during the night with poor visibility, tired and on an empty stomach. There was a time when he might have had no other choice if he cared to survive long enough to leave this shithole town, but they had changed each other over the years, reluctantly and maddeningly slow. Jaskier could no longer stand to be alone and Geralt -

\- oh, well, who the hell knew what Geralt wanted.

\---

There seemed no use paying into the farce that they were going to take separate rooms. They were going to fuck, and it was going to be fabulous – it was everything else that went to shit.

He followed Geralt up to the room he'd taken earlier. By the time he was twisting around, closing the door, Geralt's back was to him, clothes hitting the floor in irregular crumples that reminded Jaskier a little of writing a love poem, the splashes and smears and dots of ink that flew off of his nib when he was feeling overwhelmed by feeling. 

He leaned against the wall, closed his eyes, and held his hand to his heart, feeling the pulse beneath his fingertips, no doubt even as Geralt was listening in.

"Argh!" he screamed as a distinctive nose-shaped object bumped his crotch. When he was quite sure he wasn't about to soil himself, he looked down to see Geralt on his knees, nosing at his crotch. 

Typically, the sight would have been an erotic dream. Right this moment, though, Jaskier felt a little like he'd had a heat stroke. 

"Geralt, _Geralt_ ," he said urgently. "I think I might lose consciousness soon in a very manly manner."

Geralt paused, eyebrows knitted. "You're going to faint?"

"Is that what I said?" Jaskier asked a little peevishly for his liking.

Geralt sighed, hooked his arms beneath Jaskier's thighs, and picked him up before neatly depositing him on the edge of the bed. "Better? Did you drink too much?"

Why was everyone always asking him that? " _No_ , I'm just thinking about some, you know, _stuff_." He was desperately trying not to be turned on by the ease with which Geralt manhandled him. 

"Maybe I can help clear your head," Geralt murmured, kneeling again and pushing in-between Jaskier's knees, pressing them wide with his shoulders, mouth open and hot and damp through the thin material of Jaskier's trousers.

Still, though this was the exact improbable fantasy that had seen him through many a long, hard, lonely night, his dick could generously be called stuck at half-mast. Most assuredly, his dick was interested in the vision before him but it was also weighed down by an immense kind of regret that he could barely even verbalize; he was by all intents and purposes sporting a weak _boner of sadness_ , 

"Hey," Jaskier said playfully, tugging his hair. Geralt kept going, nuzzling. Jaskier took a firmer grip on his fistful of hair and gave it a stern yank.

Something about the way Geralt went stiff, then relaxed beneath him made Jaskier pause, a sharp spark of recognition like seeing an old friend's back through a crowd of strangers. "You really like this, huh?"

Geralt didn't answer, but the muscles across his back shifted, restless, and Jaskier was reminded that it was a bit like having a caged lion between his legs, a concept matched only in its sheer terror by arousal.

The mass of anxiety that had made a permanent home in Jaskier's gut since meeting Geralt eased a bit. _This_ made sense to him. _This_ , he knew how to handle. He murmured, "Even if you wanted to, you couldn't stop me. I could do anything at all to you."

Geralt's eyes fell shut, the candle on the nightstand flickering low and throwing a shadow over the hollows of his cheeks. 

"Undo my trousers."

Geralt reached out, brushed his fingers over Jaskier's cock where he was suddenly _blindingly_ hard, and carefully undid the laces on his breeches, tugging them down around his hips. 

Jaskier took a shuddering breath as Geralt fisted his cock and pressed his lips to the crown. As he opened his mouth and sucked him in, Jaskier's fist tightened reflexively, knuckles white against Geralt's equally pale hair. Geralt groaned around his cock, taking him further into the tight wet heat of his mouth.

Jaskier was the only one who had seen Geralt like this, he was sure. Something about that ignited something fierce inside him. 

His head dropped back, propped up only by one aching arm. 

"Just like that," he said, guiding Geralt's mouth further with the other. "That's good. You're _so_ good."

He could feel all the tension leave Geralt's body as he melted into him, grasping his hips and taking him down to the root. 

"Fuck, oh fuck. _Geralt_." His skin was hot, too tight, sweat prickling at the edges of his temples. For all that the room was illuminated by a small candle, it might as well have been an out of control bonfire, raging just somewhere beneath his skin. 

Maybe this is what he'd been waiting for all along, this sense of letting go. There were no barriers between them now. He reached out a hand to cup Geralt's sharp jaw, his lips stretched wide around Jaskier's cock, and he carefully thrust in. Geralt made a sound as his tongue massaged Jaskier's cock's underside.

"Wait, wait," he said, the thought just occurring to him, "I want to fuck your ass."

Geralt swallowed, making a choking sound, and slid off with a slick sound. He quickly pulled off his remaining clothes and looked to Jaskier for instruction. This was new; Geralt had many micro-expressions but uncertainty was never one of them. It should have felt all wrong, but Jaskier loved it.

"On your back. I want to see you."

Geralt laid back on the bed next to him, knees hitched up on either side of him. There was something delicious about seeing Geralt laid bare while Jaskier himself was nearly completely dressed. He scrambled off the bed, trousers still hanging low around his hips, and grabbed the bag he'd carelessly flung to the side earlier and fished around for his oil. The day was coming when they'd be desperate enough to do this with spit and sweat, he thought wryly, but that day was not today. He still wasn't going to take it easy on Geralt. He dribbled a generous amount on his cock, stepped between Geralt's knees, using the tip of his cock to spread the oil over him, down the shadow of his crease. Geralt gave a startled grunt as he caught along the rim of his asshole. Instead of pulling back, Jaskier pressed forward torturously slowly. As slowly as they had grown unaccustomed to each other, as slowly as they had arrived at this point. Their relationship was never going to be easy, but maybe it was better than it was real. 

"Relax," Jaskier said soothingly, running his hand up and down the muscles of Geralt's stomach, watching them bunch and coil beneath his touch. He watched Geralt relax his body, inch by inch, as he eased his way in.

"You _want_ to belong to me," he realized. It made a terrible kind of sense in a way: Geralt had never even wholly belonged to himself; he had certainly never belonged to anyone else who did not give him away. It felt incongruous that someone could look at Geralt and not see something immensely valuable; Jaskier could easily recall the first time he'd seen Geralt tucked away in the back of a cavern, glittering like pyrite, a bit like hiding a stallion among foals. 

Geralt shuddered beneath him, cock hard and curving up towards his belly, absolutely wrecked. Jaskier breathed deep through his nose, losing himself to the feel of it, and hitched Geralt's powerful thighs up, nearly folding him in half. He was going to feel this in the morning. "I'm going to tell you a secret," Jaskier said, leaning forward and pressing his lips up to the sweetly curving shell of Geralt's ear: "You always have been mine," and then he slid home.


End file.
